


The Rest Is Ours

by MCRmyGeneral



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Extreme angst, Hospitals, M/M, Medication, Overdose, Pills, Psych Ward, Sadness, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Tumblr Prompt, hopelessness, prompt, suicidal character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 19:41:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10343211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MCRmyGeneral/pseuds/MCRmyGeneral
Summary: So this was what it felt like. This is what Ian had been fighting.Mickey didn't like it. He wasn't as strong as Ian.He knew sooner or later he'd lose.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OnlyHereForGallavich (taekookies_and_cream)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taekookies_and_cream/gifts).



> Here ya go, sweetface! <3

Fiona's face flashed across Mickey's phone as the silence in his bedroom was broken. He stared at it for just a second, not wanting to seem too eager.

“Yeah?”

“Are you ready?”

“It's 9 am; I just woke up,” Mickey lied. He'd been sitting awake in his bed for five hours before he decided it was late enough to go make coffee for the house.

“Ugh!” Fiona groaned. “Meet me there in twenty minutes, okay?”

“Yeah.”

He hung up and stood, walking over to check himself out in the mirror on his closet door. He hated button-ups; he looked like a hipster. But going to see your boyfriend in the hospital wasn't really an occasion where an old t-shirt with the sleeves cut off was acceptable. He tugged at his rolled-up sleeves and his collar, hoping that something would make him feel a little more like himself. Of course, he could primp and prod all he wanted, but he'd still feel way too starched, like he was wearing a mask. He sighed and shut his closet door, going to find his shoes.

****

This place gave him serious goosebumps. It smelled so strongly of alcohol and sterilization that Mickey was almost able to get a buzz going if he breathed deep enough. Everything was white. The walls, the floor, the uniforms the orderlies were wearing. He'd never seen white look so angry.

He drummed his fingers against his thighs as he and Fiona waited. This was wrong. He shouldn't be here. Ian shouldn't, either. They should've been at home, smoking a joint, drinking a beer, sucking each other off. Anything was better than this. This wasn't where they belonged.

Mickey breathed a silent sigh. Why them? Why couldn't they be happy? Why was there always something in their way?

The door opened and Ian shuffled in, and Mickey's heart fell. He didn't look like Ian. He seemed to stare right through Mickey and Fiona, like he didn't even know they were there. He didn't respond to their touches, didn't hug back when Mickey wrapped his arms around him. He smelled like clean cotton, and Mickey hated it. The meds took away every part of Ian that was ever good; his laughter, his bright smile, the light in his eyes. And now even his smell.

Mickey wanted to run. He wanted to bolt out the door and sprint all the way home, where Ian's essence was still alive in every room. The boy had always been a light in Mickey's life, and the home, the room, the bed they shared still held that light, even if only for a little while longer.

But he sat, stiff and scared, gritting his teeth and forcing a smile, as Fiona spoke softly to Ian. He nodded when he needed to, and assured Ian that Yevgeny was home and safe, but inside, Mickey was falling apart. He hated the way Ian looked, he hated the way he smelled, he hated that he wasn't alert and lively. This wasn't the boy he loved. This was some shell of what Ian used to be, and it was all Mickey could do to keep from crying as he watched Ian walk away without so much as a wave.

Fiona looked down at him, frowning. She'd seen Mickey look every shade of angry, from annoyed to livid, she'd seen him worried, she'd seen him happy and smiling, she'd seen him sad. But the look on his face right now wasn't any of those. It was some heartbreaking mix of agony and hopelessness, and she had to fight the urge to lean down and wrap him in one of her bear hugs, like she used to hug the kids when they were little; tight and warm, holding them for hours if she had to, until they calmed down or fell asleep, rocking them gently and running her fingers through their hair. Mickey looked like he needed that kind of hug right now, more than Fiona had ever seen anyone need a hug.

“I'm gonna go,” Mickey said, standing and leaving before Fiona could even move. She watched him leave and sighed, kicking the pristine tile floor.

****

Mickey threw the front door shut and stomped past Svetlana, Mandy, Nika and Iggy, leaving them all looking after him in worry. He didn't stop to try to settle them. He just slammed his bedroom door shut, clear instructions for everyone to leave him the fuck alone.

He ripped the shirt of his back, popping at least three buttons off. He balled it up and threw it at the wall, breathing heavily through his nose. He hated this feeling. He was angry and sad and hurt and scared and he didn't know how to deal with it all. He wanted to scream, to cry, to hit someone, to feel pain all at the same time.

He kicked his shoes off and crawled into bed, burrowing under the blankets that, just like he had hoped, still smelled so strongly of Ian. Mickey buried his face in the pillows and inhaled deeply, gulping in breaths as fast as his lungs could handle. He wasn't sure when the gasps turned into sobs, but he kept his face pressed against the cotton, thankful that the sounds he was making were all being absorbed by the pillow and not creeping into the hall where everyone could hear them. His entire body convulsed as he cried, muscles constricting and bones aching. The pillowcase grew cold, wet with tears, but Mickey didn't dare flip it over. He just laid and cried, until wails gave way to sobs, which eventually turned into soft gasps and whimpers, sniffles and hiccups.

Mickey knew pain. He'd been punched, kicked, cut, had his bones broken, stabbed, pistol whipped, even shot twice. That was all manageable. He knew how to deal with physical pain. This was something new to him. It went deeper than the day-to-day hurt of hearing his father fag-bash, it was even worse than the torment he felt when Ian turned away from him and walked out of this same bedroom a year ago. This was the worst pain he'd ever felt, on a completely different level than physical pain. This was an ache he couldn't handle. He didn't know how to deal with this kind of agony.

He stayed in bed, curled up under the blanket, back to the door for hours, until the sun had dipped below the horizon and the moon had crept out in its place. He was thirsty, he had to pee, his knees were stiff and sore, but he didn't have the strength to get out of bed. He didn't have the strength to do anything but lay there. He couldn't even cry anymore.

He knew what this was. It was depression. And not just the ‘I live in a shitty neighborhood with no hopes of making anything of my life and will die here without anything to be remembered by’ kind of depressed that everyone that lived around here had lurking beneath the surface. This was depressed depressed. The kind of depressed that he'd seen Ian fall into, that he had tried so hard to pull him out of. This was even deeper than pain. It was nothingness. It was dangerous, but Mickey didn't know how to shake it. He'd seen Ian try to fight this, had been so judgemental when he couldn't. Had thought of Ian as weak for a split second. But now he knew. He could understand now how depression sank into his skin and made his bones ache. It felt like there was a shadow right behind him, clawing at him, pulling at his feet and sucking up any warmth and happiness that came his way. 

This was what Ian had been battling, and he felt like such a jackass for not giving him better support. This was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. He just wanted to feel happy. He wanted Ian. He wanted the Ian Ian had been before this fucking disease had crept into his head. He wanted his boyfriend back. But that tall redhead Mickey had seen back at the hospital, that vacant, lifeless thing wasn't his boyfriend. Mickey didn't think he'd see the Ian he loved ever again. He felt like crying again, but he couldn't. He couldn't do anything. He couldn't do anything but hurt.

****

“Mickey?”

A soft knock fell against the bedroom door.

“Mickey?”

Mickey said nothing. He just pulled the blankets higher over his shoulders, settling even further into the bed.

“Mickey, are you there?”

The door opened slowly, cautiously.

“It's me, Debbie.”

“Go away,” Mickey shook his head softly.

“Where have you been? We haven't seen you in days. We've been calling and texting you.”

Mickey still said nothing.

“Ian's home. He's been home for three days.”

Mickey licked his lips and squeezed his eyes closed. That wasn't Ian. It was someone else, pretending to be Ian. The Ian Mickey loved was gone.

“Why haven't you been to see him?”

A tear slipped down Mickey's face, soaking into the pillowcase.

A deep sigh echoed through the room, and a moment later, the door closed again.

****

“How do you feel?”

Ian shrugged slowly. “Like my head is full of oatmeal. Like I'm swimming through molasses. Everything's kind of fuzzy and I feel like I'm moving in slow motion all the time and it feels like fifteen minutes between me thinking words and them actually coming out of my mouth. I kind of feel like I'm half-asleep all the time.”

“Yeah, but do you feel crazy? Do you feel like you're going a mile a minute?”

Ian took a swig from his beer can. “That's just the thing. I don't feel like I'm nuts when I'm nuts. I feel normal. I feel like myself. Until I'm depressed. Then I feel like my soul is fading from my chest. I feel like I've never been happy.”

Lip sighed. “It's the sedatives. You know that, right? They'll wear off in a few days. After that, you'll be back to normal.”

Ian raised an eyebrow, and Lip chuckled. “I mean, as normal as you ever were.”

A chuckle built in Ian’s chest, but died before it could escape his lips.

Lip sniffed. “You heard from Mickey at all?”

Ian cleared his throat. “No. Fi said he came with her to see me, but I don't remember it at all. The last time I remember seeing him was before I left with Yevgeny. Too doped up the other times.” He blinked slowly, looking from Lip out across the backyard. “The way he looked at me that day. He told me he was gonna take me to the hospital. He looked scared, Lip. I scared him. Like being in the same room with me made him nervous,” He said, shaking his head. “As much as I can't handle this fucking disease, he's even worse with it. He can't be with bipolar.”

Lip rolled his eyes. “With all due respect, Ian, that's fucking bullshit.”

Ian furrowed his eyebrows and stood up straight. “What do you mean?”

Half of Lip’s mouth pulled into a smile. “You should've seen him when Fi first mentioned sending you to a hospital. He was so offended,” He said with a chuckle. “I thought he was gonna hit her. Trust me, Ian. Mickey's stuck with you through thick and thin. Don't get me wrong; he's probably gonna need a while to adjust, just like you will. But he's not giving up on you. Not if you don't give up on yourself.”

Ian blew out a short breath, and his heart skipped a beat. “Are you sure?”

Lip scoffed. “Don't be stupid, dude. He's in love. You are, too.”

Ian half-smiled, the first time in a long time.

“Go see him, Ian. You need it.”

Lip flicked his cigarette out into the yard, clapping Ian on the shoulder before turning and walking back inside.

Ian sighed and took another drag from his cigarette.

****

The sun filtered in between the blinds, slices of light aimed directly at Mickey's face. Mickey groaned and rolled over, swearing and sitting up. He stood and the floor tilted, sending his head spinning. 

He sat back down on his bed, reaching for one of the dozen half-empty beer bottles on the nightstand. He drank it down quickly, grimacing at the taste. It was warm and old and flat, and he wasn't a hundred percent sure why he was doing it. Until he guzzled down three more and felt the haze of drunkenness creep into his mind. He wasn't quite there yet, but the stale beer was enough to dull the ache in his chest. If four week-old beers did this, he could only imagine what a handle of whiskey would do.

He stumbled his way to the kitchen, rifling through cabinet after cabinet until he found the liquor. A full bottle of Wild Turkey was the first thing to make him smile in over a week.

He threw the cap into the living room and tipped the bottle into his mouth, drinking nearly a quarter of the booze in a record time. When he set the bottle down, he scanned the house. It was empty. It could've been empty for seven seconds as easily as seven days. The last thing he remembered was Debbie coming knocking on his door. He didn't know how long ago it was.

 _Jesus, Mickey_ , a voice in his head spoke up. _Amazing how low you've sunk. You're despicable._

Mickey shook his head to throw the voice from it, but he knew he couldn't argue. This was what it had come to? Chasing stale beer with whiskey and aching for the touch of someone that would never be the same again. The thought twisted his stomach. Ian was his world, had been for a lot longer than he cared to admit. He was his reason to get up in the morning, his first thought when he woke and the last face to flit through his mind before he fell asleep at night. He was the air in his lungs, his reason to smile, practically the only thing he cared about anymore.

But that had all changed, was all ripped out from under him in the drop of a hat. Ian would be this spacey, vacant person as long as he was on his meds, and when he wasn't, he was a danger to himself and the people around him. Things would never be the same. Ian would never be the same, twisted into this stranger by some fucking disease he'd gotten from his fuck-up of a mother. The only thing she ever did for her son was ruin his fucking life.

Mickey groaned, the whiskey churning through his blood. Did he really want to live in a world where Ian wasn't the Ian he knew? He knew the answer to that question.

Mickey stumbled into the bathroom, the alcohol sitting heavy in his otherwise empty stomach. He was drunk. That's his excuse. He's certain that he never would've done it if he wasn't already half a bottle in. But as it was, he was already dizzy from the buzz as he walked to the medicine cabinet, throwing it open and scooping everything into the sink. He snatched one of the countless prescription bottles up, fumbling with the stupid child-proof cap for a minute before he finally broke it off in a moment of rage. He dumped the pills into his hand. There weren't a ton, and Mickey wasn't sure exactly what kind of pills they were, but if they were in the medicine cabinet, then they were strong enough to get the job done.

He brought his hand to his mouth, meeting his own eyes in the mirror for just a moment. They were red and raw, swollen from crying and somehow they looked a little less blue and a little more grey. Dull. That's the word. Dull and lifeless. The eyes in the mirror threw a judgemental glare back at him through the spidery cracks, fissures caused by his own fist. Mickey shook his head at himself. “You don't understand,” He spat at the boy in the mirror. The boy sneered at Mickey in disgust as he brought his hand to his mouth.

****

“Mickey,” Ian groaned more than asked, knocking on the door to the Milkovich house, the house that Ian called home not too long ago. He wondered if he still had that right. He waited a long moment, but nothing came from inside the house, which was a strange and unsettling feeling, since there were usually so many people moving about inside. He knocked again. “Mickey, it's me. I need to talk to you.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight back and forth between his feet impatiently as he waited. He knew this confrontation was gonna go one of two ways. Either Ian was leaving single, or not leaving at all. He was desperately hoping for the best, yet silently preparing for the worst.

Another moment went by without a sound. Ian traded knuckles for his palm, slamming his hand against the door angrily. “Mickey, fucking talk to me! If you wanna split up, at least have the balls to say it to my face!” He yelled at the thick oak door.

Nothing.

Ian choked back a sob, setting his forehead against the cold door. “Mickey, please,” He whimpered, too soft to be heard inside. He didn't wait for an answer before he turned away. He knew he had a 50/50 chance of being rejected, and as much as he tried to prepare himself for it, he couldn't keep his chest from aching or his stomach from churning or his eyes from watering. He sighed.

His foot hadn't even landed on the first step when he heard a clatter from deep inside the house, like a sack of potatoes being thrown down a flight of stairs. Ian turned and rushed back to the door, knocking incessantly and forcefully.

“Mickey? Svet, Iggy?”

When something shattered inside, Ian threw the unlocked door open. The Milkovich’s door was always unlocked; there wasn't anyone in Chicago to be afraid of when you were a member of this rabid dog pack.  
Ian hurried inside, scanning the house quickly. It was cold and dark, like no light or thermostat had been touched in days. Ian shivered for more than one reason. “Hello? Is anyone here? Mickey?”

A light groaning drew Ian to the bathroom. He stormed in, heart racing and adrenaline pumping.

He saw what had made the crash.

Mickey was slumped against the wall on the ground, surrounded by broken glass.

“Mickey? Jesus, it smells like a bar in here,” Ian noted, lifting his foot and curling his lip at the alcohol that dripped from his shoe.

Mickey didn't say anything. He didn't even look at Ian.

“Are you drunk?” Ian asked, squatting to be level with Mickey. His eyes were glazed and he seemed to be looking through Ian, like he didn't even know he was there. He set a hand on Mickey's shoulder. “Mick, are you okay?” He asked, his heart still beating faster than normal. Something was wrong. Ian had seen Mickey drunk before, but he never got this out of it. “Mickey, can you hear me?”

Mickey groaned. The first sign of life since Ian had walked in. He sighed in relief. “You're hammered,” He said with what was almost a smile. He went to go sit on the toilet, but froze when he saw an empty orange bottle sitting in the pile of broken glass and whiskey. The blood in his veins ran cold.

He snatched up the bottle and read the label. Dilaudid.

“Oh, god,” Ian gasped. He threw himself at Mickey, wincing as the glass on the ground bit into his knees. He grabbed Mickey's face and forced him to look at him. “Mickey, pay attention to me, okay? Did you swallow these?”

Mickey nodded through lidded eyes, barely awake.

“How many did you take?”

“N-not sure,” He struggled with the words, like his tongue was swollen.

“And you chased them with liquor?”

Mickey nodded weakly.

“How long ago?” Ian painted.

Mickey moved his shoulder in what Ian guessed was a shrug. Ian shook Mickey's head.

“Listen to me, Mick! I need to know how many you took!”

Mickey turned his head away.

“Goddamn it, Mickey!” Ian screeched, and Mickey flinched. Ian grabbed Mickey by his shirt and dragged him over to the tub, propping him up against the ledge.

“The fuck, Gallagher?” Mickey groaned, his words coming more clearly. He struggled against Ian's hands, hating that Ian was pulling him around like a rag doll.

Ian took Mickey's resistance as a good sign. He hoped it meant that the alcohol was wearing off. This would be a lot easier if he were sober.

“Stick your finger down your throat,” Ian demanded.

“Fuck off,” Mickey threw at him.

“Do you want to fucking die?” Ian yelled, and it hit him just then. He didn't know why he didn't see it earlier. That's exactly what Mickey wanted. This wasn't just an accidental overdose. This was a suicide attempt.

“Goddamn it, Mickey, what the fuck were you thinking?” Ian roared in Mickey's face.

“You weren't you anymore,” Mickey said softly. “You were someone else. Nothing matters if I don't have you.”

Ian choked back tears at Mickey's words. This was his fault. Him and the fucking disease he wore. Then he chuckled once, because here, angry and scared, adrenaline pumping, yelling at Mickey, this was as normal as he had felt since the first pill passed his lips.

He set a hand on Mickey's neck and leaned his forehead against Mickey's. His stomach turned and he almost recoiled at the smell of alcohol on his breath, but that didn't matter right now. “Listen to me. I'll get normal again,” He said, putting stock in the fact that Lip was usually right, “We just have to give it time, okay? I'll go back to being Ian. We’ll go back to being us. But right now, we need to get the pills out of your stomach, okay? I love you,” Ian whispered, and he swore that he saw Mickey's lips turn up in a small smile. “Now come on. You need to make yourself throw up; we don't have time for an ambulance.”

Mickey groaned.

“Mickey, come on!”

“No,” Mickey resisted, shaking his head.

“Are you fuckin-,” Ian cut himself off and sighed. “This _needs_ to happen, Mick. You will die if it doesn't.”

Mickey rolled his eyes.

“Please don't make me do this,” Ian said angrily, and Mickey shook his head.

“You're a fucking asshole,” Ian muttered under his breath. He clenched one hand around Mickey's jaw, forcing his mouth open.

Mickey tried to shake his head, tried to shake Ian off, but he was still drunk, and Ian was stronger. Ian shoved two fingers in Mickey's mouth, wiggling them against the back of his throat.

Mickey twisted and bucked, his stomach turning as Ian tickled his gag reflex. He finally pushed Ian off of him, just in time.

“What the fuck, Ian?”

“I'm sorry,” Ian said, shaking his head. “But you can hate me later,” He reasoned.

Mickey cocked an eyebrow, confused until Ian threw himself at him, pinning him in the corner between the wall and the tub.

Mickey groaned as every one of his vital organs was crushed by his mammoth of a boyfriend. Ian forced his mouth open again and stuck his hand back down Mickey's throat, twisting and wiggling his fingers. 

Mickey bucked again, trying to push Ian off, but Ian had all the leverage, and Mickey didn't have enough momentum to shake him this time. Ian leaned him over the tub, holding him there securely. He felt Mickey's stomach heave and rammed his fingers in even farther. Mickey's throat closed around Ian's fingers for a second, and he ripped his hand away, unfortunately not fast enough to dodge the cocktail of whiskey and stomach acid that followed. Mickey coughed and spat the last of it into the tub.

Ian groaned in disgust, shaking the slime off his hand.

Mickey groaned too, and slumped against the wall, feeling actually much better now that his stomach wasn't turning.

“How many did you take?” Ian asked him, eyes scanning the mess in the otherwise pristine tub, no doubt from his own manic cleaning spree weeks ago. He counted the small white, triangular pills.

“I don't know,” Mickey groaned, holding his stomach. He was already speaking much more clearly, sobering up fast since the alcohol was no longer sitting in his stomach.

“I need to know how many you took, Mickey!”

“I don't remember,” Mickey said angrily.

“If you don't tell me, I'm gonna do it again,” Ian warned him, and Mickey flinched away.

He scoffed. “Twelve, I think. Eleven or twelve.”

“I'm only counting ten.”

“It's fine, two pills aren't gonna kill me,” Mickey reasoned, pulling himself up to sit on the edge of the tub. Ian leaned over and turned on the hot water, washing off his hand first, then throwing handfuls of the water to the other side of the tub, rinsing the bile and pills down the drain. Then he turned the faucet to cold and cupped his hand, filling it with water and bringing it to Mickey's lips. Mickey swished the water around in his mouth and spat it into the tub. Ian turned off the faucet and dried his hand, sitting next to Mickey on the edge.

“Thanks,” Mickey said softly, suddenly embarrassed, ashamed. Even if Ian would never be the Ian he loved again, Mickey wasn't weak. Suicide was weakness. He crossed his arms and sank in on himself.

Ian waited a long moment before he spoke.

“What the hell, Mick?”

Mickey bit his lip and looked at the floor, the bits of broken glass reflecting the sun shining in through the window.

“Say something,” Ian demanded. “Jesus, what the hell were you thinking?”

Mickey exhaled hotly through his nose.

Ian shook his head and stood, heading toward the door.

“I didn't-” Mickey said, and Ian stopped and turned. “I don't want to be without you.”

Ian sighed and walked back over to the tub, sitting back down closer to Mickey than he had been before.

“It was only three days, Mickey. You could've come to see me as soon as I got out.”

“It's not the hospital,” Mickey said sadly, shaking his head. “You're different.”

Ian stiffened. He knew he was different than he had been years or even months ago, he knew that Mickey wouldn't be able to love crazy. But hearing it confirmed by Mickey's own words hurt. “I know I am. I'm sorry.”

Mickey sniffled. “Those meds make you a different person. You used to be this ball of light. When I saw you in the hospital, you didn't even look real. You looked like someone had washed all the color out of your life.”

Ian cleared his throat. “Lip says it's the sedatives. He says I'll be back to normal when I get the meds figured out.”

“Does he know that for sure?”

Ian sighed and shrugged. “Probably not. I might have to walk around half-loopy for the rest of my life,” Ian joked, but neither boy laughed.

Mickey shook his head softly and crinkled his eyebrows. “I'm sorry, but I don't know if I can deal with that. It hurts seeing you so out of it.”

Ian sighed through his nose and nodded. “I understand.”

Mickey looked over at him, shocked. “You do?”

“Sure,” Ian said with a shrug. “If it was you, I'd be crushed. If I didn't think I'd ever see you smile or hear you laugh again. Who knows? I might be the one swallowing painkillers.”

Mickey leaned his head on Ian's shoulder, and Ian chuckled.

“What's so funny?”

“We’re kind of a train wreck,” Ian said with a soft chuckle. “I won't take my pills, meanwhile you're taking too many. Poetic justice.”

Mickey rolled his eyes.

“Listen, the doctors say it could be weeks or even months before we figure which pills will keep me level, get me back to being me. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to be around for all the trial and error.”

Mickey grimaced. When it was put like that, he realized what a shitty boyfriend he was being. He slung an arm around Ian's shoulder.

“I can't just leave when things get hard. I'm your boyfriend; my job is to stick by you. Good times, bad, sickness, health, all that shit. We're a team, you know. Family,” He said, smiling at Ian.

Ian flashed him a blindingly bright smile. He chuckled once. “As your boyfriend, can I tell you something?”

Mickey cocked an eyebrow, and Ian leaned in to whisper to him.

“You smell really bad.”

Mickey chuckled and pushed Ian away playfully.

“Yeah, I probably do. I haven't really been out of bed for a few days.”

Ian laughed and stood, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Mickey's cheek. “Take a shower and brush your teeth. I'll sweep up the glass.”

Mickey watched Ian walk out of the room and toward the closet, a warm smile spreading over his face. Ian's light was coming back. It wasn't a hundred watt just yet, but it was steadily getting brighter. And it was enough to make the animal clawing at Mickey's feet retreat, tail between its legs.

He stood and turned on the shower, stripping and stepping under the hot spray. He and Ian were both a little fucked up, but they fit together just right. They'd been through a lot of shit the past few years, but they were strong. Mickey decided that it was gonna take more than a chemical imbalance to rip them apart.

He'd make sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> While I did do my research, I would like to go on record as saying that I am not a medical professional, and this is only going by what little information I know about overdosing on pills. This may or may not be an accurate way to deal with an overdose, so DON'T FOLLOW THIS EXAMPLE!
> 
>  
> 
> I take requests and prompts! Let me know what you'd like to see [here](http://ieroween1031.tumblr.com/ask)!


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